tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4781519581448010612024-03-13T03:15:51.338-07:00My Grass Is Purpletotally true, somewhat exaggerated tales about marriage, motherhood, writing and all the other stuffMelissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-81747423056271812582020-07-08T07:26:00.000-07:002020-07-12T07:09:25.929-07:00Memories in the Drift<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><font face="times"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font face="times"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-POFuvDCPado/XwSlMlWQPSI/AAAAAAAAAq4/yy-DojXiVM0QSfrDQaeWfaLCuIsGwn2sQCK4BGAsYHg/s1237/Payne-Memories%2Bin%2Bthe%2BDrift-27926-FT.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1237" data-original-width="825" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-POFuvDCPado/XwSlMlWQPSI/AAAAAAAAAq4/yy-DojXiVM0QSfrDQaeWfaLCuIsGwn2sQCK4BGAsYHg/s320/Payne-Memories%2Bin%2Bthe%2BDrift-27926-FT.jpg" /></a></font></div><font face="times"><div><font face="times"><br /></font></div>A few years ago I was combing the internet both bored and looking for inspiration when I stumbled across a documentary on a small town in Alaska. Whittier. A piece of land carved from the shores of Prince William Sound that had been a Cold War army base until the military withdrew. Sometime later, it transformed into a place that catered to cruise ships, fishing boats, recreation seekers and anyone interested in the forgotten history of a crumbling building on a hill. A town where nearly all of the two hundred or so residents live in a fourteen-story high-rise that overlooks a harbor abounding with seals and orcas and all manner of wildlife.<o:p></o:p></font><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><font face="times"> </font></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><font face="times">I was immediately drawn to this town, not because of the unrelenting rain and snow and heavy clouds that cling to the mountains for much of the year. And not because of the two-and-a-half-mile single lane tunnel that closes every night and is the only way in and out of town, unless you come by boat. Not even because of the abandoned military building that has since morphed into the earth itself, but that once housed nearly a thousand military personnel and was known as a <i>city under one roof</i>. The mammoth building was left to the punishment of the harsh Alaskan elements where it sits today, an ever-present reminder of the past.<o:p></o:p></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><font face="times"> </font></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font face="times"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MciShG2EdII/XwSoQn77EpI/AAAAAAAAAtA/2c6lUZF2slAh3ggwQomDzQvEIzGuanUCQCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/Whittier%2B-%2B1%2Bof%2B1.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MciShG2EdII/XwSoQn77EpI/AAAAAAAAAtA/2c6lUZF2slAh3ggwQomDzQvEIzGuanUCQCK4BGAsYHg/s320/Whittier%2B-%2B1%2Bof%2B1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></font></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><font face="times">There is something mystical and mysterious about Whittier that can draw the imaginative and the creative. And all of that might have drawn me in at first.<o:p></o:p></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span dir="RTL" lang=""><o:p><font face="times"> </font></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><font face="times">But it was the people who live in Whittier that sparked a deep interest in me. The folks who call this slice of wild beauty home. And it was the image of nearly an entire town that, depending on the weather, was fully contained within the kind of building I associated more with urban living, not set against a backdrop of glaciers and waterfalls and craggy mountain peaks. I was struck by a comment from one of the town's residents:<o:p></o:p></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><font face="times"> </font></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><font face="times">“We don’t always love each other, we don’t always get along, but when something awful happens, everyone is going to be there to help you.”<o:p></o:p></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><font face="times"><br /></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><font face="times"></font></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font face="times"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HYzkzNYtmvA/XwSomoxHujI/AAAAAAAAAtc/HE7jadB8DXQ4kUAIFSN_k-Em2l_gl1V5gCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/All%2BPhotos%2B-%2B1%2Bof%2B1%2B%25281%2529.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HYzkzNYtmvA/XwSomoxHujI/AAAAAAAAAtc/HE7jadB8DXQ4kUAIFSN_k-Em2l_gl1V5gCK4BGAsYHg/s320/All%2BPhotos%2B-%2B1%2Bof%2B1%2B%25281%2529.jpeg" /></a></font></div><font face="times"> </font><span style="font-family: times;">I was hooked. Because to me, that's the essence of neighborhoods, communities, cities, small towns, states, a country, our world. We don't always get along. But when things get tough, when bad things happen, we help each other. Or we should.</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><font face="times"> </font></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><font face="times">It's an imperfect system, but to me it's a beautiful statement of hope that, even and especially now, we can reach out to the people around us and do something to help others<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang=""><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>.<o:p></o:p></span></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><font face="times"> </font></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><font face="times">After watching the documentary, I kept going, discovering articles and videos and pictures and I absorbed as much as I could about this town. What kind of a story could I set there? I wanted one that would highlight the warmth of its community even amidst the cold and the dark of its long, snowy winters, the incessant light and frequent rain of its summers. What kind of story would lay bare the kindness and sacrifice and hardship and love that emerges in communities like Whittier?<o:p></o:p></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><font face="times"><br /></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><font face="times"></font></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font face="times"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IA8h6R3yA2I/XwSozAv7scI/AAAAAAAAAto/3UV6r8LKajcj2liLYzIPZNg9e51viZvAgCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/Whittier%2B-%2B1%2Bof%2B1.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IA8h6R3yA2I/XwSozAv7scI/AAAAAAAAAto/3UV6r8LKajcj2liLYzIPZNg9e51viZvAgCK4BGAsYHg/s320/Whittier%2B-%2B1%2Bof%2B1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></font></div><font face="times"> </font><span style="font-family: times;">And that's how the idea for my next novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Memories-Drift-Novel-Melissa-Payne-ebook/dp/B084VPDL7Z/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" target="_blank">Memories in the Drift</a>, started. It is a story about survival. A story about love and sacrifice. A story about community and what happens when tragedy rips apart the lives of people we may know well or hardly at all. It releases December 1, 2020 and I hope that while the characters and the story are fictional, it tells a tale of what makes a town like Whittier unique and what makes all of our communities places of healing and hope.</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><font face="times"> </font></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">Even if we don't always love each other or get along.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><font face="times"></font></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font face="times"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZUs4huBZCi4/XwSo-sMWdeI/AAAAAAAAAt4/wD-V-mfaktY5gF_yM3TAhn-kpVRMyG_TgCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/All%2BPhotos%2B-%2B1%2Bof%2B1.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZUs4huBZCi4/XwSo-sMWdeI/AAAAAAAAAt4/wD-V-mfaktY5gF_yM3TAhn-kpVRMyG_TgCK4BGAsYHg/s320/All%2BPhotos%2B-%2B1%2Bof%2B1.jpeg" /></a></font></div><font face="times"> </font><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><font face="times">If you'd like to preorder <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Memories-Drift-Novel-Melissa-Payne-ebook/dp/B084VPDL7Z/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3EUKGCF23OBRO&dchild=1&keywords=memories+in+the+drift&qid=1594143233&sprefix=memories+in+the+%2Caps%2C213&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Memories in the Drift</a>, click <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Memories-Drift-Novel-Melissa-Payne-ebook/dp/B084VPDL7Z/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3EUKGCF23OBRO&dchild=1&keywords=memories+in+the+drift&qid=1594143233&sprefix=memories+in+the+%2Caps%2C213&sr=8-1" target="_blank">here</a> or visit my website <a href="https://www.melissapayneauthor.com" target="_blank">here</a>. I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed researching and writing it. And if you find yourself in Whittier one day, book a room at <a href="https://www.juneswhittiercondosuites.com" target="_blank">June's Whittier Condo Suites</a> and enjoy the stunning views, and after one of any number of beautiful hikes around Whittier, or a boat tour or some glacier kayaking, make sure you grab a drink and a fantastic meal at <a href="http://www.anchorinnwhittier.com" target="_blank">The Anchor Inn.</a> For more information, visit <a href="https://www.whittieralaska.gov" target="_blank">The City of Whittier</a>.<o:p></o:p></font></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><font face="times"></font></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font face="times"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sZr-nKj0Ygg/XwSpK_Df01I/AAAAAAAAAuE/RB0fMNjb_9ogy8VQWpgElfo26xlNUqPVgCK4BGAsYHg/s4032/All%2BPhotos%2B-%2B1%2Bof%2B1%2B%25282%2529.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sZr-nKj0Ygg/XwSpK_Df01I/AAAAAAAAAuE/RB0fMNjb_9ogy8VQWpgElfo26xlNUqPVgCK4BGAsYHg/s320/All%2BPhotos%2B-%2B1%2Bof%2B1%2B%25282%2529.jpeg" /></a></font></div><font face="times"> </font><p></p>Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-51090006815173299862020-04-05T18:28:00.000-07:002020-04-05T18:28:22.289-07:00Pandemic Truths<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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I make elaborate breakfasts. Seriously, like Belgian waffles with homemade whipped cream and eggs cooked in all manner of poached, boiled and fried. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My kitchen is clean. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I call my parents every morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I ask the kids about their day, while they’re still in the middle of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have Zoom chats with college friends spread all over, and others with friends who are only a few miles away. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My dog has logged more walks in these last few weeks than probably his entire life. I’m sad to admit that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The cat has no idea anything has changed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My teenagers talk more than they grunt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My husband holds my hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s quiet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There’s something going on. Let me clarify. There’s a lot that’s not going on. The weeks are not flying by full of errands, softball and soccer practices, dance and theater rehearsals, school, hurried dinners, meetings, deadlines, missed phone calls with family and friends. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Instead the days stretch long, the weeks even longer. There are twenty-four hours in a single day. Did you know that? I must have forgotten because I find myself at one o’clock in the lull of an afternoon shocked that it’s not time for dinner. So I mosey downstairs where the kids are in their bedrooms and also in school. My son has pulled his desk into the middle of his room. For him, the classroom setup is a hard habit to break. Not so for the girls. I have to remind them to get out of bed, that productivity, while tempting, is not necessarily better when prone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s quiet. And not in volume because we are a loud family with emotions that we find easy to express. It’s quiet in the way I forgot existed. I can hear myself think. I think I can even hear the teenagers think. It’s not Pollyanna, trust me. There have been tears and fights and words we wish we could take back, but there’s also been mediation and compromise, forgiveness and listening. There’s been much more of that perhaps because there’s been more time. More time to think about others, time to worry about loved ones, time to wonder about those who have lost jobs, or don’t have a safe home or those who don’t have a home at all. Time to think about everyone in the medical field, selflessly going to work, or those who deliver our mail, empty our trash, restock the shelves, keep our heat on, make the toilet paper. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s the kind of quiet that comes when nearly everything we fill our days with has been suspended. It is forcing us to learn how to <i>be </i>together without distractions and busyness and schedules to occupy our thoughts and direct our actions. Last week, we lost our Internet for three days and it didn’t even phase us. Instead we watched old family videos and laughed at how young we all were. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I miss the world as it was. I miss my friends. I miss hugging my mom and dad. I’m sad that school trips have been cancelled for the kids, that they’re losing important formative time with their friends and teachers. But I think that losing some things means we’re gaining something else. For us, it’s time, and a quiet that draws us closer, allows us to see each other in more detail, the good and the bad, and the things we didn’t even know until we asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Don’t get me wrong. I want this to go away. I want our world safe and for scary things to get pushed back under the bed where they belong. But I’d like to take a piece of this quiet with us when life resumes. I question why we have made our lives so busy in the first place, and I mourn all the quiet bits we’ve moved right past without even knowing, in favor of staying busy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So I want to remember how in the quiet of this time, we reached out to others, answered phone calls we would have allowed to go straight to voicemail, gave money to organizations in need, supported local businesses because we didn’t want to see our community suffer, did something about the homeless, the abused, the addicted, the isolated and alone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I want this to be over. But I hope that we remember the quiet and take it with us when our calendars fill yet again with softball and soccer, theater and dance, meetings and work. I want to remember that in the quiet, we were compassionate and thoughtful, that we circled the virtual wagons, appreciated our neighbors and friends, that we were kind to each other and loved without expectation or greed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And when everything does go back to normal, there is one other pandemic truth I hope to take with me. One piece of domestic life I’ve never fully conquered until now. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The laundry. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I hope I can forever be more caught up on the laundry.<br />
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Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-70737801355472759692019-08-14T08:55:00.000-07:002019-08-14T08:55:12.516-07:00The thing about timeHere's the thing about time. It refuses to slow down. And nothing makes me more acutely aware of its relentless momentum than a day like today.<div>
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Because on this day my kids went back to school, I've been married for twenty years, and I finished my next manuscript. </div>
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First, let's address the anniversary. Twenty years of marriage? Seriously? Isn't that for, like, <i>mature </i>people? Only yesterday, we were fresh-faced newlyweds arguing over how to load the dishwasher and somehow it's two decades, three kids, two dogs, two cats and a revolving door of fish later. Not to mention that as of today we have only middle and high school kids who have morphed into their own little humans with goals and plans and passions that don't (and shouldn't, I know, I know) include living with mom and dad for the rest of their lives. </div>
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We are on fast forward to the empty nest part and while it's natural and inevitable and exactly what we've been working toward since giving birth, it's still hard. It's still heartbreaking. And it's all part of the journey. </div>
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But it doesn't make it easier to watch the sand gleefully slide down the hourglass while I try to hold on to every precious moment, even those that include eye rolls and sighs, and especially those tender moments that make it all worth it. </div>
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On top of it all, I finished my next manuscript and while this doesn't seem to compare to marriage and kids, in a way it does. Because while for a big part of my life I have happily identified as being a wife and mother, this part, this writing and creating and losing myself in characters and stories, this has given the passing of time a different meaning. </div>
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No, I can't stop time because I'm a writer. Time is an indifferent beast that doesn't care what it leaves behind. But it is also a gift to experience its passing and for me, it's a vast landscape where I get to create stories. Stories I hope will provide an escape to a place where the seconds move a little slower, if only for a little while. </div>
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Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-11561971325710788502019-07-31T21:46:00.000-07:002019-08-01T07:31:10.706-07:00An early surpriseSomething is happening today. Something that wasn't supposed to happen until September 1st. <i>The Secrets of Lost Stones</i> was an editor's pick for the First Reads program at Amazon, which means it's available to read a month early.<br />
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And while it's nothing like getting married or having a baby, or winning a gold medal, or saving a dog from the jaws of a mountain lion, it's pretty sweet, at least for me. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Lost-Stones-Melissa-Payne-ebook/dp/B07MQRH93T/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1C4N0YG4XUSDW&keywords=the+secrets+of+lost+stones&qid=1564640500&s=gateway&sprefix=the+secrets+of+lost+%2Caps%2C169&sr=8-1">Click here to purchase</a></td></tr>
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Because the First Reads program puts it in front of gobzillions of people all over the US, UK and Australia. </div>
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Which means it's out there now. There's no turning back, no more revisions, no redos, no changing of hair color or names or backstories, or god forbid, the opening pages. My work, my story and my way of storytelling are printed on paper for any eyes who choose to read it.</div>
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<i>And they aren't my mom.</i> Which means that since they didn't give birth to me or cuddle me until I fell asleep after a bad dream, or watch all of my softball games or, well, since they're not <i>my mom, </i>they may not like it. </div>
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Which is okay and totally fine and reading is subjective and hahahaha, how do I politely back away from this conversation? </div>
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But that is the nature of reading and what makes it an adventure full of unexpected twists and turns with characters we love and hate and sometimes want to marry. It is subjective and unpredictable and so I remind myself to relax, take a sip of wine, and let my book speak for itself and to the people who will escape inside its tale. <br />
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Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-8784653311712069122019-07-15T05:53:00.000-07:002019-07-15T05:53:21.746-07:00Getting it right...or not<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
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<span style="border: 1pt none; color: #393f44; font-family: "times"; padding: 0in;">Funny thing about writing a book. When you're done, you write it again. And then when that's done, you edit it and revise it, until you decide it should be narrated from only one perspective. So you write that version until you have an amazing breakthrough that the book shouldn't be from the perspective of your homeless fifteen year old girl, no! It should be told through the eyes of a dog using only small dog words, like sit, stay and good boy. What a writing feat that will be! Award winning for sure! So you write that version and then you realize, oh no, that idea sucks.</span><span style="font-family: "times";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="border: 1pt none; color: #393f44; font-family: "times"; padding: 0in;">So you write the book again.</span><span style="font-family: "times";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="border: 1pt none; color: #393f44; font-family: "times"; padding: 0in;">Writing requires persistence, stubbornness and a willingness to do it over and over again until it's just right. Or right enough. Or right to the point where you hope someone will read it and like it and recommend it to a friend. </span><span style="font-family: "times";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ws1XCCbLWWg/XSx1bRpRVHI/AAAAAAAAAds/e7av-t4QcUcOEo8zbKuew6uVdWiJkMlHACEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_1078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ws1XCCbLWWg/XSx1bRpRVHI/AAAAAAAAAds/e7av-t4QcUcOEo8zbKuew6uVdWiJkMlHACEwYBhgL/s320/IMG_1078.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="color: #393f44; font-family: "times";">Now parenting on the other hand also requires persistence and stubbornness and a willingness, not to do it over and over again because three children are quite enough for me, thank you, but a willingness to be bad at it, try again, watch your kids fail and try again, and then do it all over again the next day. </span><span style="font-family: "times";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #393f44; font-family: "times";"><br />So over the past five years I have been co-parenting growing teenagers who are lovely well-adjusted young adults one day and then roller coaster hormonal beings the next, all while trying and failing to get published until, after many years, I finally succeeded. Why do I share this? Do I deserve pity or an award? No, not at all. There are parents all over the globe doing this or something like this or more and nobody gets a medal. </span><span style="font-family: "times";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #393f44; font-family: "times";"><br />I share this because when you realize how imperfect even our best efforts can be, when you're faced with the magnitude of preparing adults for the world beyond home and you can't see the path ahead because it's actually several paths preparing to diverge, then failure isn't terrifying. It's life changing. </span><span style="font-family: "times";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #393f44; font-family: "times";">Failure doesn't have to be scary or humiliating. Instead, it can be how we learn and listen and grow and try again until we eventually kick ass. Success is so much sweeter after we've struggled in the mud of not-so-greatness. Hard work is learned when we pull ourselves up, put on a new pair of shoes, and do it all over again. </span><span style="font-family: "times";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #393f44; font-family: "times";"><br />It's what I have learned and continue to learn from writing and this long road to publishing. It's what I hope my kids are developing as they travel into adulthood. To become strong people with the capacity to fail, learn, fail, learn, and try again until they get it right.</span><span style="font-family: "times";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-18150150435601106502019-05-20T04:03:00.001-07:002019-05-20T04:03:26.621-07:00At The Moth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="text-align: center;">So I did this thing. </span><br />
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A little something called The Moth. If you know what it is, then you get it. If you have never heard of The Moth, then stop reading this, go to <a href="https://themoth.org/podcast">The Moth podcast</a> and listen to any episode. It's the ultimate in story telling. Live events are held all over the country and people go, put their name in a hat or bag or whatever is most convenient, and then ten names are drawn for that evening's event. There is a theme, a five minute time limit and a requirement that the story be true, personal and told without notes.<br />
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This has been a bucket list item for me since I first started listening to the podcast. But while I told people of my dream, waxed poetic on the idea of getting up on a stage and speaking into the brightly lit void to an audience of strangers, I never, ever, thought it was something I'd actually do.<br />
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Until I told a friend of mine in passing about my lofty idea, how I love this podcast for the breadth of stories, the courage of the everyday people who get up to tell them, the depth of emotion some stories bring out in me, the laughter, the tears, the awe.<br />
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And she agreed. Wholeheartedly. Before I knew it, I was looking up Moth events in my area and much to my surprise, one was coming up in the next month and the theme was Mama Rules.<br />
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<i>How perfect</i>, I thought, and tried to ignore that first twinge of fear and doubt gnawing on my insides. I sent a text to my friend. <i>Hey, there's a Moth Story Slam here. We should do it</i>. And when I didn't hear back from her immediately, I breathed out, relieved. <i>Well, at least I tried.</i><br />
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A few days later over coffee, I mentioned it to a few friends in broad brush strokes of enthusiasm, not expecting any kind of response other than, <i>wow, that sounds interesting and how cool of you to want to do it. </i>Instead I got, <i>let's do it.</i><br />
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Sometimes it sucks to have awesome friends.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CQ6KBYuJFCw/XOIyE-8sEoI/AAAAAAAAAc4/9DRqlUwDjowIyhkqBDvzHKhiBHAAqdABQCLcBGAs/s1600/fullsizeoutput_12fc.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1522" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CQ6KBYuJFCw/XOIyE-8sEoI/AAAAAAAAAc4/9DRqlUwDjowIyhkqBDvzHKhiBHAAqdABQCLcBGAs/s320/fullsizeoutput_12fc.jpeg" style="cursor: move;" width="304" /></a>Last Friday it happened. My friends and I went to a Story Slam. I'm a writer and I write emotions and reactions for fictional characters for a living. So to feel my heart literally pound against my chest as I waited with excitement and trepidation for my name to be called, felt both professionally validating and surreal. Because our hearts actually do beat and pound and thump and our blood really does pulse in our ears. It was exhilarating and I was nervous as hell.<br />
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And then my name was called.<br />
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The telling is a blur. I remember the faces in the audience, softened and obscured by the blue stage lights so that I was speaking into a muddied void. An image that was comforting and vexing at the same time because I longed to see the encouraging smiles of my friends just beyond the glare. I remember the laughter and applause, which was especially comforting since I was telling my Christmas Fingers story, a not particularly flattering mom moment. And I remember when I took my seat afterwards and for the first time that evening, my heart beat slow and normal.<br />
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But this was the whole point. I wanted to be scared and nervous and unsure of myself. I wanted to push myself out of my everyday comfort zone and feel raw and vulnerable. And I'm glad I did because in a few months my first book, my debut baby, will be released to the world and while I can't predict how well it will do, I can tell you that I'm nervous as hell. Soon, it will be my book, my characters, my story that takes the stage.<br />
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But now that I know what it feels like, I'm ready to face the void.<br />
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***Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-41299692576401642122019-05-10T06:09:00.000-07:002019-05-10T07:04:20.315-07:00It's about the kids<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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My kids go to school where they participate in active shooter drills, lockouts and lockdowns.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At a local high-school a boy gave his life to defend his classmates. A girl from Florida came to Colorado to die and our schools closed. My children were only babies when a man stormed into Platte Canyon and forever changed a community. This year we recognize twenty years since Columbine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And what has changed?<o:p></o:p></div>
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We ask how and why and where do we go from here or we don’t talk about it at all. Our kids are growing up amid these tragedies, preparing, practicing in case it happens to their school next. And in the meantime, they grow numb because that is the only way they can focus on learning quadratic equations or discussing a classic novel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Adults take to Facebook and Instagram and Twitter and instead of doing what adults are supposed to do - talk, discuss, mediate, debate, find solutions, work together - all the things we hope our kids are learning behind locked doors at school, instead we get mired in like-minded camps where we toss out opinion grenades about gun rights and mental health and bad parenting and social media and we blame and blame and blame until we get lost in hateful discourse and bitter disagreements.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t have answers. I wish I did. I do talk to my kids about all of it. The fear, the sadness of lost and angry kids, the power of empathy and compassion, and then I change the subject because they need a little bit of numbness in order to still be a kid. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But we adults shouldn’t rest in our numbness. We need to do something, try something, discuss something, <i>agree </i>on something, because <i>all </i>of our children deserve at least that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-84951665585128589382019-02-11T04:27:00.000-08:002019-02-11T04:27:01.585-08:00Parenting the StormYou'd think that after nearly fifteen years of on-the-job parenting experience I'd have this whole thing down. I mean, how hard is it, really? I'm the parent, right? Together with my husband we're the big boss, the 5-0, where the buck stops.<br />
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But reality is harsh and messy and human beings are born with different desires and drives and in turn respond in ways we didn't plan.<br />
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I was a pretty decent kid. This is not to say that I didn't lie to my parents or do things I shouldn't have. True confession: yeah, I did all that. But when I became the appropriate age (translation: mom and dad couldn't ground me anymore) I confessed, told them how stupid I had been, how sorry I was to have lied, how I should have trusted them with my dirty laundry. And I assured my mom that I would one day be a better parent for it. I would keep my future kids from making the same stupid mistakes and dumb decisions like I had because we would have an open and honest relationship where they would never lie to me. <br />
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In turn my mother hugged me then said with a layered tone in her voice that I wouldn't understand until much, much later, "Well, Missy, I can't wait for you to have children of your own one day." Her words made me feel warm and confident because surely what she meant was that I was right.<br />
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But that wasn't the case at all. It's just that my mom had learned the point of parenting a long time ago and knew, even with her adult child, that there were just some things her kids had to learn on their own.<br />
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Because what it has taken me a few decades, three kids and a significant loss of sanity to realize, is that parenting is not a one approach fits all kind of job. And that my childhood mistakes do not make me an unqualified expert on raising my own teenagers.<br />
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Parenting is a boat, no a dinghy, in a hurricane, winds whipping the water into dark, frothy waves that violently rock the boat while Sean and I straddle it, trying to keep our balance in the rain and the wind and the water that stings our faces. And the point of it all isn't to keep the kids safely in the boat, no, that analogy while tidy and cute, isn't the point of parenting at all.<br />
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The point, I am learning, is that teenagers are the ocean and the wind and the rain and the hurricane itself. The point is not to keep them tucked safely away from the elements because they are the elements. The point is to let them figure out who they are, what they stand for, what they are willing to fight for in the middle of the mess that is hormones and school and friendships and bad choices and mistakes, and yes, maybe even a lie or two.<br />
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The point is to help our kids become the stronger for it. And the point is to get through the stormy parts so that on those peaceful, glassy water days, we laugh, and love and learn to enjoy the ride together.<br />
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<br />Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-37671813662618499342019-01-14T13:36:00.001-08:002019-01-14T15:43:51.074-08:00Dear Family Dear Family,<br />
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You get me. You really, really get me. After four days of confining myself to my room, of shivering under the covers and taking enough ibuprofen to keep my fever low enough so I could lie still without wave after wave of body aches, you gave me something that only those closest to me would understand.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_5g_ksSsNjI/XDz94-KUGvI/AAAAAAAAAYc/scFIFa7EHU8ZmHWJc5afib2mVrn_NfXMgCLcBGAs/s1600/fullsizeoutput_1000.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_5g_ksSsNjI/XDz94-KUGvI/AAAAAAAAAYc/scFIFa7EHU8ZmHWJc5afib2mVrn_NfXMgCLcBGAs/s320/fullsizeoutput_1000.jpeg" width="240" /></a>Only three precious someones who had gestated in my womb for nine months and nursed at my bosom for an entire 365 days afterwards would know the inner workings of my heart. Only someone who said <i>I Do</i> could possibly have guessed at what I would have wanted the most on my first morning feeling almost human again.<br />
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When I came downstairs at 6:15AM to take the first two darlings to the bus, my eyes filled with tears that slipped quietly through the four-day-old grime on my un-feverish cheeks. And when I walked to the front door to retrieve my shoes, gently testing the strength of my legs after so many days of non-use, my hand flew to my chest and I gasped at the offering you had left me.<br />
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Is every mother and wife this lucky, this special, this <i>loved</i>?<br />
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Because what you so lovingly understand is that when a mother is sick all she thinks about are the tasks she is unable to do, all the errands and jobs that won't get done. And her biggest concern is someone else doing those jobs for her. In fact, a mother's most basic fear in life is for her position in the family to become redundant.<br />
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But you sweet, thoughtful, considerate offspring of mine and you, my handsome, sexy husband, you gave me the assurance that my job will never be taken, never be redundant and only, ever be performed by me.<br />
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I nearly fell to my knees so grateful was I to be reassured in this most loving and thoughtful of gestures. I can never be replaced. No. Matter. What.<br />
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So after I got the last darling off to school this morning and before I showered for the first time in four days, but after I took that morning's dose of ibuprofen, I cleaned the kitchen. With a full heart I wiped crumbs from the counter that I think may have been there since sometime last week and gleefully attacked the dishes stacked chest high. Then I danced to the sodden pile of snow pants, coats, mittens, ski helmets and goggles left in the middle of the foyer like a Mother's Day Hallmark card and smiled gently, my heart full.<br />
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I love you, too, dear family.<br />
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With much gratitude,<br />
Me<br />
<br />Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-44577336111350915602018-10-15T04:00:00.000-07:002018-10-15T05:23:27.464-07:00Eat as a family<div>
My mom was a working mother who got dinner on the table almost every night. The whole shebang too. Carefully folded napkins, fork, knife, even the spoon we never used, butter in a separate dish with a butter knife, matching water glasses, place mats, and beautiful serving dishes filled to the brim with whatever hot meal we were consuming that evening. </div>
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During dinner, we talked and laughed, discussed politics, faith, you name it. After dinner, the kitchen was cleaned, made spotless and presentable for the next morning when the cycle began again. </div>
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Sounds Norman Rockwell, huh? But that was my parent's generation when school, work, life in general made way for the family dinner.</div>
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I'm not sure where the breakdown occurred. I'd like to blame modern society and vaping and social media. I'd really like to pin this one on Trump. Alas, I cannot. </div>
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I think I had it in me all along to break the cycle. While the family talked, I plotted, waiting for the perfect opportunity to slide my napkin full of green beans or peas into the soil of the nearest potted plant. When dinner began to wind down, I pressed my arms into my stomach, made small, but audible noises of discomfort. And in the second before my mom asked my siblings and me to clear the table and load the dishwasher, I asked to use the bathroom. Where I stayed until my sister pounded on the door and my brother screamed at me that he knew I was hiding in the bathroom to get out of cleaning the kitchen.</div>
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Duh.</div>
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So maybe I had it coming. This reality I find myself in where dinner as a family means different things depending on the night. Sometimes we find ourselves hunkered around the island, eating chili from a single spoon out of the crock pot. Or we eat in shifts, clocking in and out like it's a job. I actually love to cook, but I love the process of it most of all. So I experiment, try different flavors and anyone with children can predict the outcome of making food look different. As a result, there are nights when the picky kid ends up starving or shoving a handful of goldfish into his mouth while standing in the pantry where he thinks I can't see him. </div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ztQdC-PpgxI/W8OlRiTFXoI/AAAAAAAAAX4/ho1W6H8pOBQF96-PJ4c3a3gtJfRnzjM6gCLcBGAs/s1600/fullsizeoutput_e9b.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1308" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ztQdC-PpgxI/W8OlRiTFXoI/AAAAAAAAAX4/ho1W6H8pOBQF96-PJ4c3a3gtJfRnzjM6gCLcBGAs/s320/fullsizeoutput_e9b.jpeg" width="261" /></a>Sometimes we eat at 4, other times at 6, and more often than I'd like to admit, at 8:45 when everyone is finally home. Sometimes we eat together, or in pairs, or in the car on the way to dance or soccer, or alone and on the school bus to a softball game. </div>
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On that rare occasion when we do sit around the table to eat, it is with paper towels as napkins, jelly jars and pint glasses for water, butter still in the wax paper, and pots and pans taken directly from the stove or oven and used as serving dishes. Since it's usually near midnight when we finish eating and the kids have homework to do and there's laundry to fold and a science fair project due the next day, the kitchen is left as is. </div>
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A disaster. </div>
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While my family dinners look nothing like my childhood and the clean-up leaves much to be desired, there is something that remains, a thread that links my family now to my family back then. Wherever we eat, whether it's at the table, around the island, or in the car, we talk. We share things about our day: good things, bad things. We give advice, we disagree, sometimes there's fighting, always laughter, and if the mood strikes, a rousing game of I-spy. </div>
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I'll always wish I'd had it more together as a mom when it comes to the small things; folded and pressed laundry, tidy kitchen, sparkling toilet bowls. But if this version of family dinners can still create memories like my own did - good and lasting memories of time spent together - then I'm good with that.<br />
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Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-75569777275056790532018-08-13T04:00:00.000-07:002018-08-13T05:14:38.463-07:00I Still Blame The GooniesLast Tuesday we went to Red Rocks Amphitheater to see The Goonies. Together, we watched one of our favorite movies surrounded by towering red rocks and the glowing skyline of Denver. It was one of the last of our summer family activities and it was awesome.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iIzdiBjeM1Y/W3Ckg2xy97I/AAAAAAAAAXc/PA3-O_13KikHFRJ6PQVH6lFZNuQTjPtPACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_5455.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="898" data-original-width="898" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iIzdiBjeM1Y/W3Ckg2xy97I/AAAAAAAAAXc/PA3-O_13KikHFRJ6PQVH6lFZNuQTjPtPACLcBGAs/s320/IMG_5455.JPG" width="320" /></a>As the scene approached where Chunk spies the Fratelli's racing down main street, we all elbowed each other and laughed. So, in honor of our Goonies night, I'm reposting this story from 2012 when the girls were tiny and Sawyer was a four-year old with a bone to pick. This time I've added a video of the lasting effect The Goonies had on our boy. It's one of our absolute favorites. <br />
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<b>From the Blogger Me of 2012:</b> I don't really cuss in front of my kids. On a good day my worst offense is saying <em>stupid</em> and on a bad day it's<em> crap</em>. Don't get me wrong, when the kids are not around I can hold my own with any sailor. But for the most part we're G to PG rated for language at home.<br />
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As for movies, the kids all know (to an annoying extent as they inform other parents and children) that they are not allowed to watch PG-13 movies because it's <em>inappropriate</em> for kids their age. Inappropriate, usually pronounced in-u-po-pee-et.<br />
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Needless to say, Sean and I have given ourselves small pats on the back as language goes. But all good and smug things must come to an end. This summer we drove 1,600 miles to Florida. A three day road trip which amounted to something like the Cannes Film Festival, except the movies previewed were not cool, the plots were thin and nobody famous attended.<br />
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Translation - the kids watched lame movies for three days straight until Sean and I pulled out our ace in the hole - The Goonies. A movie we would enjoy listening to, PG rated so age <i>appropriate</i> for the kiddos, cool because it's from the 80's, and adult friendly because it would provide our family with great lines we could use on each other like r<i>o-cky road, boobie trap, dat's what I said, </i>and d<i>o the truffle shuffle.</i><br />
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It was a perfect plan. Until the part where Chunk sees the cops chasing the Fratelli's down main street. You know the part. As the cars speed by, Chunk peers excitedly out the window to watch the action and as he does smashes his pizza and strawberry shake on the glass yelling, "AWW, SHIT!"<br />
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Sean and I froze. Maybe they didn't notice. We glance at each other and wait. Nothing happens and the movie continues. Whew. Lesson learned. Apparently, movie ratings from the eighties are about as up to date as acid washed jeans and Aqua Net.<br />
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Then we hear crayons hit the floor, followed by the thump of a coloring book, a small four-year-old voice saying with perfect intonation and admirable placement, "AWW SHIT!"<br />
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I had to hand it to him, he totally used that word <i>appropriately</i>.<br />
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I stay calm, after all it's not the kid's fault, it's The Goonies. So I say gently, "Sawyer, please don't use that word. It's a bad word and you should not say it."<br />
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"Say what, Mommy?"<br />
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"That word, Sawyer."<br />
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"Which word?"<br />
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Ella pipes up, "You're not supposed to say SHIT, Sawyer."<br />
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"Yeah, Sawyer," Keira adds, "SHIT is not appropriate."<br />
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"SHIT? I'm not supposed to say SHIT?"<br />
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Sean groans. I am at a complete and total loss as the kids begin discussing the many <i>inappropriate </i>uses of the word SHIT.<br />
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"Okay!" I say at last. "I think we can all agree that it's an inappropriate word and we shouldn't use it." There. That should do it.<br />
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And then, two hours later, we hear the soft thud of a cup falling to the floor, followed by french fries and crayons. That same small voice, "AWW, SHIT!"<br />
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CLICK ON THE VIDEO BELOW OF FOUR-YEAR-OLD SAWYER TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER ABOUT YOUR OWN PARENTING.<br />
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Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-84184106307438894122018-07-09T05:25:00.000-07:002018-07-09T05:25:52.474-07:00TeenagersI had gotten smug. I had begun to believe that through some miracle of parenting I had effectively curtailed the dreaded - duh, duh, duh!! - teenager phase. You know, the phase that makes mostly sane mothers pull their hair out strand by strand, question everything they once believed, and consider self-admission into an institution.<br />
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What a fool I've been. And now I am lost in the wilderness that is raising teenagers. Is she still loving? Yes. Is she still kind and generous and forgiving? Yes. Does she smile and laugh and think my jokes are funny some of the time? Yes. Yes. Yes to all of that and more.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ul8W8zZhkmc/W0KpN-gbc2I/AAAAAAAAAWk/E8pOpvSkf9oRAYxKDMbDle30h-58YZ9MACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_9957.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ul8W8zZhkmc/W0KpN-gbc2I/AAAAAAAAAWk/E8pOpvSkf9oRAYxKDMbDle30h-58YZ9MACLcBGAs/s320/IMG_9957.JPG" width="320" /></a>But she's different. Some days she looks at me like she sees me through someone else's eyes. Some days I can't get a word out of her. And sometimes my words hurt her for no reason other than I said them on this particular day when her worldview had shifted with her mood.<br />
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Is it moodiness? Yes. Is it hormonal? Sometimes, yes. Can I blame it on technology and 'kids these days' and social media? Not this part, no. Because what I'm learning as I drag myself through the tangled overgrowth of this teenage forest, is that this particular phase is purposeful and necessary and part of her journey.<br />
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She might not understand what she's doing, but I do. And it hurts my mommy heart, just the tiniest bit. Because she's stretching her wings, testing her boundaries, figuring out who she is other than a daughter or a sister or a girl who loves softball.<br />
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She's growing up.<br />
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We are close, the two of us, and always have been. Yet, I think even that must stretch and change to fit the woman she is becoming. And I have to learn how to give her the space to do that while still parenting her around mood swings and hormones and technology and 'kids these days' and social media.<br />
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It's a forest, all right, filled with gnarly bushes, muddy quagmires, gigantic trees with limbs that twist and branches laced with thorns that sting. I could get lost here, throw my hands up in the air, sink to the ground and give up. But I won't, even if I have no hair left and a mental institution on speed dial.<br />
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Because she's worth every eye roll, every inexplicable sullen moment, every exasperated sigh and every noncommittal shoulder shrug. And when we get to the other side, I can't wait to meet the young woman who emerges from this wild forest with me.Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-78075096313031578012018-07-08T12:53:00.000-07:002018-07-08T21:26:56.062-07:00The Call<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none; color: #393f44; font-size: 13.5pt; padding: 0in;">It was a Thursday afternoon when I got the call. I was deep into doing research for my new book. So deep I did what sometimes happens in the afternoon after hours of scouring the Internet, reading articles, taking notes and not drinking enough coffee.</span><span style="color: #393f44; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none; color: #393f44; font-family: inherit , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; padding: 0in;">The old school ring of my cell phone cut through my haze. I groaned. Probably another recorded voice calling to ruin a perfectly lovely power nap. I checked the screen. New Jersey?</span><span style="color: #393f44; font-family: inherit , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none; color: #393f44; font-family: inherit , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; padding: 0in;">My voice was flat and uninviting. “Hello.” </span><span style="color: #393f44; font-family: inherit , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none; color: #393f44; font-family: inherit , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; padding: 0in;">“Hi Melissa, this is Jessica Faust.” </span><span style="color: #393f44; font-family: inherit , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none; color: #393f44; font-family: inherit , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; padding: 0in;">And with that I was awake. Wide awake and grinning as Jessica launched into talking about my manuscript that she had read, and liked and oh, by the way, it also needs <i>a ton</i>of work. But all I heard was how she liked it, she really, really liked it! </span><span style="color: #393f44; font-family: inherit , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none; color: #393f44; font-family: inherit , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; padding: 0in;">I listened, I think I asked questions, but mostly I listened and tried desperately to remember what the heck I was supposed to say. But Jessica was funny and engaging and put me completely at ease. As she shared her feedback about the manuscript with me, it became obvious that she had connected with the magical realism and women’s fiction elements of the story in a way that I had hoped a reader would when I wrote it.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #393f44; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">During the course of that first conversation, I knew in my gut that Jessica was the right agent for me. But everything I had read about this moment told me that I was supposed to take some time to think about it. So I did. When we spoke again, I asked questions, many of them culled from Jessica’s own helpful and very informative blog posts. By the end of our phone call, I finally got to say, yes, yes I would love for you to be my agent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none; color: #393f44; font-family: inherit , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; padding: 0in;">Throughout my query journey, I never let myself think too much about what it would be like to get <i>the call</i>. But to all my fellow writers going through this long and challenging process, keep writing, be patient, and don’t stop until you find the agent who will be the perfect partner for you and your manuscript.</span><span style="color: #393f44; font-family: inherit , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-54286762924695760382018-07-08T12:09:00.000-07:002018-07-08T12:09:56.978-07:00The Art of Fetch<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #393f44; font-size: 13.5pt; padding: 0in;">Cool. Awesome. Rad. Bitchin. Teenage slang from my day. Who's with me? But life has moved rapidly away from those years and new phrases and words have taken over what was once familiar territory. </span><span style="color: #393f44; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #393f44; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; padding: 0in;">I know this for two reasons. One, I have teenage characters in my books and so I research to learn the current slang. Pat, pat. And two, I have a teenager and pre-teen in my home who make sure I understand how little I actually know about current teenage slang. </span><span style="color: #393f44; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #393f44; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; padding: 0in;">So they teach me. They don't realize they're teaching me, but I watch and listen and observe. I'm the Jane Goodall of teenagers. And let me tell you, based on the state of their shared bathroom, I might possibly be living with chimps myself.</span><span style="color: #393f44; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #393f44; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; padding: 0in;">Last night, I thought I learned a new word. I heard my daughter say to her sister in a weird, high-pitched voice, "That's so fetch." My eyes widened. I turned to her, barely able to contain my excitement at a new discovery. "Fetch? As in cool?"</span><span style="color: #393f44; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #393f44; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 13.5pt; padding: 0in;">A new slang word. I felt my fingers tingle. My teenage character was about to get <i>real. </i>I smiled, nodded in solidarity to my daughter. "Your hair today was really fetch."</span><span style="color: #393f44; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #393f44; font-size: 13.5pt; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Both girls erupted in giggles. The kind of giggles that mean I'm in my forties and they are not. And then I got it. "Oh, like from the movie Mean Girls?" I take a deep breath, regroup, try to remember the slang I'd heard them say when they thought I wasn't listening. "I can't even with you," I said, smiling and just a teensy bit smug. The girls cringed, then moaned as one. "Because what I meant," I continued, "was that your hair was Gucci, bruh."</span></span><span style="color: #393f44; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-44785091727443475032017-12-21T11:00:00.001-08:002017-12-21T11:14:09.863-08:00The Christmas Tree Tradition<div style="color: red;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Christmas Tree Tradition: Update</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><b>UPDATE: This post is from 2010 and it popped up on my Facebook history feed today. It's about tradition. Something I realize we hold onto, particularly during the holidays, but also as our kids have gotten older. Time slips away before our eyes. We can't stop it or slow it. Building family traditions is our way of burning the memories of our time together into our brains. It's our way of remembering so that when the kids are grown with families of their own, we have stories of our lives together. Whether they make us laugh or cry, they are our link to each other and to our shared past. And that makes them special. </b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><b>This tradition is about the search for our Christmas tree, whether that tree is found in a forest or discovered in a tree lot. Our method might change depending on the year, but the story of how our family found the tree is the one we keep and remember. </b></span><br />
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We have a tradition. Every year, we drag three frozen snot-nosed, crying children in negative degree weather to find our perfect Christmas tree. We gather around the tree, take a picture of it in its natural habitat, chop it down, sing a carol, then drag the bawling kids and the tree out of the forest and go home.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hYU1Q9Ygg04/TRBEQo6vMLI/AAAAAAAAADw/QXB1fBxujGE/s1600/ctree.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hYU1Q9Ygg04/TRBEQo6vMLI/AAAAAAAAADw/QXB1fBxujGE/s1600/ctree.jpeg" /></a></div>
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I should really stop saying we "chopped" a tree down because in reality what you do is kinda saw at it, which takes all of 2 to 5 minutes as there is nothing Paul Bunyan-like about practically pulling your Christmas tree out of the earth like a weed. These trees are not full. In fact, you see more trunk than branches.<br />
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But it's tradition, damn it. <i>And I like it.</i><br />
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This year....we DROVE to a local garden store and BOUGHT a tree. A tall, beautiful, full tree. My husband was in love and content. No crying, frost-bitten, hungry kids to worry about. No skimpy, light-challenged tree to put up. Once decorated, it looked like the tree straight out of Clara's Nutcracker Prince dream.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hYU1Q9Ygg04/TRBEdOUJ9gI/AAAAAAAAAD0/ZoKPZibyJdU/s1600/nut.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hYU1Q9Ygg04/TRBEdOUJ9gI/AAAAAAAAAD0/ZoKPZibyJdU/s320/nut.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Since the beauty went up, Sean just stares at it in wonder. His eyes literally light up if he just happens to glance at it. Is it pathetic to say the tree makes me jealous? What's wrong with our mountain tree? It might not be the prettiest tree ever, but it has wonderful family memories that come with it. Warm memories with the following highlights:<br />
<ul>
<li>The year I was pregnant and Sean had to carry a crying baby and the tree out of the forest.</li>
<li>The year I got the stomach flu AFTER we had hiked a mile to find our tree. I crawled back to the car while Sean carried two crying babies and the tree out of the forest.</li>
<li>The other year I was pregnant and Sean had to carry two crying babies and the tree out of the forest.</li>
<li>The year we drove around for three hours looking for the group of other tree cutting revelers we were supposed to meet and never found. We all cried that year.</li>
<li>And last year, after we found our tree, the sled strings broke so Sean had to hold and push three crying babies while I carried the tree out of the forest.</li>
</ul>
You see? These are the kind of touching, heart-warming memories I think about with our home grown, mountain trees. You really can't buy these kind of family bonding traditions with an imported tree.<br />
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I will admit that I have allowed myself to enjoy the fullness of our tree this year. It is refreshing that the branches can hold their own against the weight of the ornaments. I even began to let go of my favorite holiday tradition of dragging things out of the forest in favor of delightful family trips to the garden store every year.<br />
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Until last week. I noticed something odd. The tree looked, well, a little peaked. I looked closer and noticed that its once soft, green needles were hard, crunchy and brown. On the floor, dozens upon dozens of needles lay in their final resting place.<br />
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Our iconic Christmas tree was dead. Is dead. It's now a week later, and it continues to be dead. I can actually hear my no-heat LED lights sizzling as they lay on the crumbling branches.<br />
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Christmas morning is four whole days away. I'm tempted to take down the tree tonight and tell the kids that the Elf on the Shelf did it. They might believe it. No they won't. So, I will keep the tree up until 12:01 AM on December 26.<br />
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And next year (triumphant bugle sound) tradition returns!!<br />
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<br /><b></b>Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-85757675651913046262016-01-20T16:48:00.000-08:002016-01-20T16:48:17.768-08:00The Blue Reliant<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ella asked for a phone. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We said "No."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But then we told her we might consider a pay-as-you-go flip phone. She crossed her arms, shot us a tween look of exasperation and said, "But that is so old it would be embarrassing."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And just like that the moment I have been waiting for since I was sixteen was upon me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The year was 1991. Think grunge, plaid, and <i>Smells like Teen Spirit</i>. I drove a 1980-something baby blue Plymouth Reliant station wagon with faux wood trim and a leather wrapped steering wheel, meaning someone had literally wrapped a leather cord around it. The interior was a vision in blue. Blue carpet, blue dash, blue seat belts, and cracked blue pleather seats that released a fart sound whenever someone moved across the surface.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I went to a school where kids drove their parents' 'other' BMWs and 'older' Audis. But it was a big school. I could have hidden my clunker among the mass of cars and gone unnoticed. Except for one thing. I had repeated the first grade. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Not that it needs to be said, but from my parents' recounting of this time in my life, I was asked to stay back in first grade because of my outstanding grasp of all knowledge. My teacher, Mrs. T, believed me to be the type of student she needed to assist the incoming first grade class in their quest for the highest levels of education. Once I bargained for a batch of Mrs. T's famous Monster Cookies, I graciously accepted her offer. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So as an incoming sophomore in 1991, I had my driver's license and wheels. For a brief time, I was the only one. And for that reason only, the Reliant and myself by proxy, stood out. Other than being the designated driver for the entirety of my sophomore year, there was nothing cool about this station wagon. It shuddered at speeds over 35, emitted a high-pitched squeal always, and reeked of vomit-infused vodka from one of my many passengers. I was a suburban taxi driver.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">One evening I was at Burger King with a handful of friends. It was the hangout spot on a Wednesday night for many kids from the high school. Among the fryer grease and sticky floors, we hunkered down at a small table surrounded by juniors and seniors. It was like touching the coat tails of greatness. Just then the doors flung open to reveal a well-known and very cute senior. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Hey!" he called and all conversation stopped.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We all turned. Who was the lucky person who could have captivated this senior mini-god's attention?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He was looking straight at me. "Hey, you! Your bumper just fell off. It's sitting in the parking lot." </span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">All
eyes turned to me. Someone dropped their Whopper with Cheese and the flutter of the paper was loud in the silence
that followed. My face in flames, I pushed up from my plastic chair and walked out of the restaurant and into the night. Parked between a Volvo and a Land Rover was my little blue Reliant. And laying awkwardly on the concrete in front of it was my bumper. It glinted dully in the moonlight. I picked up the bumper, opened the back door, slid it in, shut the door and straightened my shoulders. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But before shuffling back into the restaurant, I swore to myself that one day I would use this moment of humiliation to teach someone else a lesson. Like my future child. She would learn how driving the Reliant taught me valuable lessons about humility, pride and greed. I would share with her the tale of how Burger King and a faulty bumper was God's way of making me a better person.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But I am forty-one years old and with the passage of time, my perspective has grown generous. The truth is that my bumper falling off didn't teach me anything, at first. I was a kid, after all, who still wanted to be liked by everyone, to be cool and to drive a really nice car. It is only as the years have stacked high that this particular moment stands out for me. Because it was one of the many lessons that have served to remind me that it's not the <i>things</i> in our life that make us happy, content or cool. It's our character, our values, our compassion, our humor, and our love. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So. Here I am. Staring down a tween who thinks that flip-phones are artifacts once used by ancient cultures. They are her blue Reliant. I could tell her my story as a reminder of why she should be grateful. Why she should be perfectly happy with whatever she gets. But I don't. Because I can remember the sixteen-year-old girl in me. The one who left Burger King with the bumper stowed in the trunk, praying that the damage was so great her parents would finally consent to buying her a new car. Maybe even an old BMW. Incidentally, they did not. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Instead, I share my story with her, hoping for a laugh, and then tell her that I understand how it feels when all your friends have something and you don't. And that it's hard not to want those things too. And then I stopped. Because I can't expect her to get it right away. She will be disappointed, emotional, even angry with our decision. But one day she will get it. And I can only hope she will be the better for it. </span></div>
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Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-9256205657265414992015-10-15T19:17:00.001-07:002015-10-16T06:48:45.627-07:00Crooked PathsWhen I was young(er) I envisioned my professional life as a series of switchbacks. Always moving forward and every so often moving up. But when I stayed home to raise the kids, I skidded off that tried and true path and found myself, if not at the bottom of the hill, on a washed-out single track with no discernible destination.<br />
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Side note: I would like to encourage the use of a different term for a mom who leaves her career to raise the kids. Because the term<i> stay-at-home</i> mom is the lamest, most watered down version of what being a mom actually looks like. Sure there were many days when I didn't leave the house, had permanent knee and butt imprints in my jammie pants, and cried when Oprah had her a-ha moments. But still, there were many other days I was a mom in the wild, wrangling strong-willed toddlers and slobbery babies down grocery store aisles and past judgmental teenagers.</div>
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Now that I am old(er) and the days of questionable diapers and temper tantrums are behind me, I find that my path, while rocky and long, has taken me to a place that the younger version of me would never have considered. Because the 'me' of my early years would have tilted her naturally colored head, scrunched her line-less eyes, taken a sip of her perfectly chilled Viognier and declared this path unlikely, an unreachable dream, never happening. Then she would have enjoyed a blissful night of sleep, one of literally dozens back then. In the morning, she would have woken up, dressed in an unhurried manner, eaten a leisurely breakfast, chatted or made out with her husband before heading out, well-rested and probably singing, to her income-producing job in the city.</div>
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Man, that girl was annoying.<br />
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But I am on this path of my own making. And on it I am writing, have written, a book. This path I've chosen is not paved, it's not straight, it is riddled with self-doubt, and I'm fairly certain it plummets over the side of the publishing cliff.<br />
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But here I am. Trying to be a writer. Stealing moments of time with my keyboard where I get to disappear into a world of my own making.<br />
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And I love it. But don't tell the other me. She's a hater.<br />
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So there it is. The world I've been living in for the past year and the one I continue to inhabit as I write book two. I don't know where this path will end, but I do know that working towards something that nurtures passion feels, well, really freaking good.<br />
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I used to worry that my kids would only ever see me as the mom who did their laundry (not well, mind you), made their meals, kept the house in "order" and managed their busy schedules. I worried that my example wasn't good enough.<br />
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Silly me.<br />
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One evening last spring, the kids were watching Star Wars, and I was on my computer, earphones in, my music turned up loud enough to drown out Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker's epic battle scene.<br />
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I wrote my own final scene that night. When I typed the words <i>The End</i>, I took out my earphones and whispered, "I did it."<br />
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Someone pushed pause on the movie and the kids and Sean crowded around me. "What did you do, Mommy?" Sawyer asked, climbing over the computer to get into my lap.<br />
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"I finished my book. I mean, I'll have to edit it a million times and then revise it, and then probably rewrite the entire thing. But, I finished it." I stared at the computer screen, shocked.<br />
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Sawyer burst into tears and we all turned to stare at him. "Why are you crying?" I asked.<br />
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"Because now you're going to get a secret agent and become famous," he said between sobs, "and you won't have time to be our mommy anymore."<br />
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We laughed. Hard. I reassured him. "Buddy, that just doesn't happen. Chances are this book will never be read by anyone outside this family."<br />
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"Then why did you write it?"<br />
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A question my younger self would have definitely asked. But this me, this 40-something mom of three and wife of one, this me knows the answer.<br />
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Because I could. And I didn't even have to take off my worn-in jammie pants to do it. Would I like to be able to share that my book will be in bookstores and available for purchase on Amazon tomorrow? Yes, I would like that very much. Will it happen? Maybe. Maybe not.<br />
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But that's okay. The other day my daughter told me something that has made every twist and turn of my path well worth it.<br />
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She hugged me and whispered, "I'm really proud of you, Mom."<br />
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And that beats writing <i>The End</i> any day.<br />
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Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-48597985418237791562015-05-28T06:31:00.000-07:002015-05-28T07:54:13.349-07:00One spaceOne space. Just one. Not two. Two spaces are for people over forty. Raise your hand if you know what I mean. You, with your hand raised, are one of two people. A smooth-skinned youth with naught but your future hopes and dreams ahead of you. Or a mature self-starter who read about this rule on another blog or (spare us all) in the Chicago Manual of Style, and who feels just a tad superior about your educated awareness.<br />
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Now, put your hand down and get out. Get out, get out. Get out.<br />
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To those of you left, welcome. What I am about to tell you is earth shifting. A truth thrust upon us by this new world we inhabit. It's unsettling and will make you question everything you once believed. Remember Santa? This is just like that, except worse. </div>
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I learned how to type in the 7th grade. And I was good. Fast, accurate, "like a breath of fresh air across the keys" is not what my typing teacher recorded in her grade book. I imagine she would have though, if asked to describe my typing prowess. </div>
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Quick question. When I wrote 'learned how to type' did you picture a computer or a typewriter? If you thought computer, get out. Why are you even still here?</div>
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A typewriter is the correct mental image. Until recently, I didn't think much about it. Then a friend of mine (who sprang from a different decade) reacted with bug-eyed shock when I told her I learned on a typewriter. As though typewriters are akin to orange julius, Members Only and Whitesnake. </div>
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It was one of those reality-check, slam you in the face kind of moments. My childhood straddled a technological divide. By admitting an association with the typewriter, I had confessed to being part of a generation who struggled through backspace and whiteout. The tail end of those generations, mind you. It's not like I used an abacus. Geez.</div>
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In class all those years ago I learned many important typewriting life lessons. Not the least of which was to put two spaces after every period. Two spaces. For readability and clarity. Two. Absolutely no exceptions. And thus have I practiced and applied this rule with due diligence and pride to every period I have ever typed. </div>
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Until now. </div>
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I wrote a book this year. During my writing sessions a little voice popped up here and there whispering lies about periods and spaces. "Be quiet," I told that little voice. "You know nothing." Then I finished my book and as I cheerily took on the process of revision my little voice piped up again. "One space after a period," it hissed like a traitor. "one space." </div>
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With shaking hands and a brave heart, I googled it.</div>
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It's a funny thing, history. Two spaces after a period should be a valued part of ours. Of a simpler time when kids played outside by themselves until sunset. Of Rubik's cubes and Atari. A time when we lived life at a slower pace with one TV and no remotes. </div>
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Those of us adjusting to one space should be revered for our historical willingness to work our fingers to the bone for a sentence. And for our ability to adapt as times change. So I revise my book and with each space I delete, I shed the dated version of me for one who presses the space bar just once. After. Each. Period. </div>
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To you who feel bound to the letter of the law established under the rule of typewriters, come out and into the sunshine of one space. It's fun, it's easy and feels a tad naughty allowing our sentences to get so cozy.</div>
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Try it. Go ahead. I think you'll like it.</div>
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...</div>
Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-65954558770864207462015-01-07T06:48:00.001-08:002015-01-07T06:48:24.446-08:0010 Tips on Surviving Lice: From a mom who's been there done thatIt happened. Oh, yeah. It happened. I thought it was just an urban myth. A story spun by vindictive women of yesteryear meant to scare innocent moms of today. A practical joke. Nothing that would actually ever happen. To me.<br />
<br />
Until it did.<br />
<br />
It was summer and we were mountain biking with the kids. Keira, the careful, thoughtful biker of the crew. She often stops to check out "something shiny" on the path. Get the picture? So it wasn't surprising that she was lagging behind. But this time it wasn't something shiny. It was something crawly.<br />
<br />
"My head itches, Mommy. Really bad." <br />
<br />
"I'm sorry, honey." I'm not really listening. This complaint does not rate very high on my Indicators of Bad Things scale. It barely registers on any of my parenting scales really. All I'm thinking is,<i> yeah, probably because you haven't showered in, what, like a week? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So we continue down the path with Keira stopping every few feet to take off her helmet and scratch her head. I roll my eyes, <i>so dramatic that one</i>. When we finally get back to the parking lot, Keira is in tears. I grudgingly take off her helmet and casually glance at her head. <br />
<br />
It was waiting for me. A smirk upon its tiny insect face. <i>See, you didn't believe your kid was miserable. This is what you get, bad parent.</i><br />
<br />
Lice. The Paynes had lice. So, parents (mostly moms out there for obvious reasons) this one's for you. My 10 tips on surviving lice. An unofficial guide on how you can beat these little buggers. Without completely losing your mind.<br />
<br />
10. DO NOT SCREAM "LICE!" IN A PARKING LOT<br />
<br />
His little beady eyes were staring at me from among the dark strands of her hair. Ewww!! The only sensible thing I could think to do at that time was to immediately and loudly alert my husband. <br />
<br />
"LICE!! Honey, oh my god, she has LICE!!"<br />
<br />
A bike pump clattered to the ground. Another family of bikers were staring at us from across the parking lot. My face burned, Keira burst into tears, and my two other kids chimed in, also loudly, "LICE? What's LICE? She has LICE?"<br />
<br />
The family of bikers scrambled into their car and passed by us casting looks of barely contained terror our way. So dramatic, that family.<br />
<br />
Helpful Hint: That family was not lice educated. Unless they came over and rubbed their heads all over Keira's, tried on her helmet, put on her shirt, there was no way they were getting lice. They were just scared, judgmental people with no compassion for the bug-ridden families of the world.<br />
<br />
9. COME UP WITH AN ERADICATION PLAN IMMEDIATELY - IT MIGHT SAVE YOUR MARRIAGE<br />
<br />
We jumped in the car. I frantically googled lice, lice products, lice anything. My head started to itch. All heads in the car started to itch. So many options for lice removal. There was the chemical way. The homeopathic way. The essential oil way. The chanting with incense way. The ignore it and blame it on someone else way. How could I choose? <br />
<br />
The car screeched to a halt in the Safeway parking lot. Sean walked in. He walked out, hat low, head ducked, furtively holding a small white bag. <br />
<br />
"Did anyone see you?"<br />
<br />
"No, it was clear. No one saw me." <br />
<br />
Whew.<br />
<br />
I opened the bag. Chemical, baby. We were going chemical. With the headlights off, we quietly rolled out of the parking lot and headed home taking our creepy, crawly secret with us. <br />
<br />
Helpful Hint: There is much discussion about which method to choose. The chemical way is harsh and I did have concerns about using it on the kids. But, if you are a salt of the earth, homeschooling person with tremendous amounts of patience and/or an inclination to wear long, flowy skirts, then you would probably do well with the mayonnaise method. At this point, I had no strong convictions other than wanting the bugs gone, eradicated, their blight upon our family nothing but a distant memory. We used RID.<br />
<br />
8. DO NOT PANIC<br />
<br />
This is a case of hindsight. We panicked. I made the kids strip down, briefly considered burning the clothes, but changed my mind and threw them into the washer. We took the kids up to our bathroom where we removed all rugs. I gave them towels. They sat naked and shivering on our cold, tiled, bathroom floor. It looked like a prison camp for children. I expanded my search. Sawyer and Ella both had evidence. My head itched even worse. <br />
<br />
Over the next four hours we shampooed and combed, and combed, and combed, and combed. It became a game for me. Like locating and digging out blackheads. I cried triumphantly at each nit I found. My head itched. It was my turn.<br />
<br />
Helpful Hint: All live lice should be dead after the initial shampoo. Your job after the first shampoo, is to comb, comb, comb to remove all nits. Nits can hatch later and bring all your problems back. So comb, comb, comb. <br />
<br />
7. DO NOT BUG BOMB YOUR HOUSE<br />
<br />
You do not need to go over your house with a magnifying glass. Or burn everything your kids may have looked at. Just wash and/or dry on high heat everything they may have slept on or have just worn. Pillows, bedding, blankets, stuffed animals, hats, clothes. Lice prefer warm juicy scalps. They are the ultimate mooch and do not generally survive longer than 24 hours away from their host. Much like a 46 year old who still lives at home.<br />
<br />
6. DO NOT EUTHANIZE YOUR PETS<br />
<br />
God really thought this one through. People lice need people blood. So the lice on your head turn up their noses to dog and cat blood. It's true, look it up. Step away from your dog. He's not part of this. <br />
<br />
5. SPILL THE BEANS<br />
<br />
I'm sorry about this one. I really am. But it must be done. And it will feel icky, like you're calling former partners to alert them about a sexually transmitted disease. But it is the right and responsible thing to do. I'll give you an example.<br />
<br />
"Hello, Nita? This is Melissa. You know how Keira was at your house yesterday watching cartoons on your couch and scratching her head? Well, we just discovered she has lice, so uh, maybe you should hose down that couch?"<br />
<br />
Or perhaps your child recently had a play date at an OCD parent's house. You can fess up using this informational opening:<br />
<br />
"Hello _____, long time no see. How are the kids? Did you know that lice is more common than you think? And that also, it's not indicative of poor hygiene? Interesting factoid, lice actually prefer clean hair over dirty. Since we're on the subject…."<br />
<br />
The only way to stop the spread of lice is to contact those you've been around within the last two weeks. It's humiliating, I know. Just grow a pair and do it. Honesty is like chicken soup for the soul, or something like that. <br />
<br />
4. COMB<br />
<br />
At this point you might think you are out of the woods. You might even be feeling just a tad bit cocky about the whole thing; pleased with your lice handling skills. That confidence will be your greatest downfall. Keep combing. The nits are still there, patiently waiting to bring you down a notch when they hatch in 7 to 12 days. Keep combing. <br />
<br />
3. ORDER THE LICEMEISTER<br />
<br />
You may have already done this. If so, bravo. But if you haven't, order it today. The brushes that come with the kits are crap. The Licemeister will pull out nits even after you have patted yourself on the back for a nit-free head.<br />
<br />
2. FOLLOW-UP TREATMENT<br />
<br />
Don't skip this. If in all your exhaustive combing you have missed a nit, it will hatch. Then that little nit will become another round of lice yuckiness. For your own sanity and reputation, do the follow-up treatment. You do not want to have to make another round of phone calls. A second round of phone calls will only serve to earn you the reputation as an inefficient lice manager. Play dates will be cancelled, carpools dissolved, sleepovers prohibited. Don't let this happen to you. <br />
<br />
1. IT'S ALL ABOUT THE NITS, NO LICE, NO LICE<br />
<br />
When you do not think you can take the combing any longer, when you have actually begun to communicate like a monkey because you act like one, when your flashlight has run out of batteries, and all you dream about is nits, then you know that it is the most critical time to KEEP COMBING. I combed for 4 weeks after our second treatment. When I went a full week without finding a single nit, I combed for another week. Excessive? Perhaps. But I had to know that the bugs had left the building. And they had.<br />
<br />
-------<br />
<br />
For the record, we are currently a lice free family. But we have been irrevocably changed by our experience. I'm itching now just writing this. I itch any time I think about lice. I find myself casually scrutinizing other people's hair for nits. I think twice before affectionately tousling the hair on a kid's head. I'm a tad bit paranoid. We never found a live bug on me, but we did pull out a few nits Ick!! Ick!! Double ick!! <br />
<br />
Somehow, Sean escaped the lice. But as a reliable source once shared with me, it is a well-known semi-fact that the family member least likely to get lice even when everybody else is infested is the dad. Is it the short hair? A superhero immunity? Are they like a dog? You be the judge.<br />
<br />
If you and your family are currently enduring lice…be strong and comb. You will be fine. If you, like us, have earned a lice survival badge, then fist bump sister, we are family now. And if you have never had lice and are at this very moment congratulating yourself for your strong constitutions, cleanliness or general wealthiness, well now, I do not wish lice upon you because that is cruel and vindictive.<br />
<br />
But, does your head itch? <br />
<br />
<br />
---Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-53744262467776951582014-11-17T07:48:00.000-08:002014-11-17T07:48:19.201-08:00An Alien And A Mika-Maka<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">A colorful illustration of the state of New
Mexico covered the side of the U-Haul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On top of New Mexico was an alien.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A looming, green alien with a pointed chin and bottomless black eyes,
our traveling companion, our sentry standing guard as the miles between Ohio
and Colorado fell away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
U-Haul was on the smaller side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But then, we had just graduated and gotten married. We didn’t own much
more than our newly acquired wedding presents, an old couch, a halogen lamp,
and a hot pot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6nZhbTdPL3Y/VGoWfRaG1_I/AAAAAAAAAOk/X5plo_co4uI/s1600/2014-11-17%2B08-15%2Bpage%2B%230.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6nZhbTdPL3Y/VGoWfRaG1_I/AAAAAAAAAOk/X5plo_co4uI/s1600/2014-11-17%2B08-15%2Bpage%2B%230.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Our wedding day had been unseasonably cool for
August in Cleveland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wet and gray,
the ground soaked through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We said
our <i>I dos</i> while the rain drummed against the stained glass windows, the
sun poking out just as we cut into the flower encrusted cake.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">On this morning - the day we packed up and
moved our lives to Denver - it was warm, humid. The U-Haul door slid shut,
disrupting the early morning peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A cloudless blue sky peeked down on me through the thick green of the
trees as I stood beside my alien and took it all in for the last time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Standing in front of me, white hair curled
delicately around her face, was my Mika-Maka.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And the only grandmother in the entire world with that name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A name made-up by my cousin, but one
that fit her like a glove.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because, that’s exactly what she was, a Mika-Maka.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only one of her kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She grasped my hand in her velvet soft
one and placed a flower in my palm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It might have come from my bouquet or from my parent’s yard, I was never
sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I held it to my nose and
sniffed, it smelled good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yusAjNWexcM/VGoWc6XMVeI/AAAAAAAAAOc/oK0L59LGQM4/s1600/MM%2Bpage%2B%230.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yusAjNWexcM/VGoWc6XMVeI/AAAAAAAAAOc/oK0L59LGQM4/s1600/MM%2Bpage%2B%230.jpg" height="232" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Then she put her arms around me and hugged me
close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I held on, feeling so big,
like her bones were fragile and I could crush her small body if I squeezed too
hard. But I held on tight, because that’s what you do when you say goodbye to
your Mika-Maka.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">“I love you, Missy,” she told me, kissing me
lightly on the cheek. She smelled good, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like chocolate fudge, zucchini bread, and flowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I soaked it all in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that hug, so brief against our shared
lifetime of hugs, back scratches, hand-holding, and snuggles, is the one I hold
in my heart today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one I can
recall vividly, like it was just yesterday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A gift, that hug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A gift I feel immeasurably grateful for receiving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Because that was the last time I saw her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Our lives have moved forward since that
morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The years have fallen
away quickly, breathtakingly so, as did those miles on our journey to Denver
with our meager possessions in tow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But that day, on the eve of the biggest chapter of my life, my memories
remain rich in detail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are
mine to take with me as I travel -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>a flower, a new bride, an alien, and a Mika-Maka.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b><i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-86693547811143247542014-09-04T08:57:00.000-07:002014-09-04T08:57:49.389-07:00Indelicate Matters<br />
Not to be indelicate, but I've been having some stomach problems lately. A not so "polite" subject matter and certainly not one for the dinner table even though it's all about the food. Probably not really a subject matter for a blog either. Or is it? <br />
<br />
It's something I've dealt with most of my life to some extent. I know many women out there can relate. Not so sure about the men as most of you seem able to set a clock based on your water closet visits. <br />
<br />
Up until now it's something that really only affected me say, after a night where I imbibed too much (college years), anytime I ate fast food (kinda obvious), all road trips, or after eating anything which offended my stomach in an unforgivable manner. But lately, and especially in the months leading up to my 40th birthday, things went downhill fast. <br />
<br />
What is it about turning 40 anyway? It's like my body fell asleep in my late 20's and on my 40th birthday jerked wide awake and shrieked, "What the hell?? What has happened to us, precious?" <br />
<br />
I wonder if turning 40 is God's little inside joke. Just something to keep Him entertained along the way. Does he chuckle to Himself as we morph from:<br />
<br />
"Oh, me? I'm in my twenties. I'd love to run a marathon with you - I haven't been training, but I used to run a bit in college. How hard can it be?"<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
TO</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"What are these tiny, unidentifiable scribbles on this piece of paper? Is it hieroglyphics? Is it code for something? Excuse me…what did you say? Would I like to borrow your READING GLASSES???"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But it's no joke. It's real. A very real reminder of what a delicate balance we must maintain in our health. So as my body has begun to show the signs of a little wear and tear, I know all is not copacetic. And so, as we do upon reaching 40, because the road ahead just got a little shorter, I decided to call my doctor and make an appointment. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I really like my doctor. And it isn't just because I get to weigh myself at her office instead of having a size 0 nurse weigh me. When I operate the weigh machine I get to move the scale around until I land on whatever number I'd prefer to see, hop quickly off and delightfully declare, "Well, look at that, 125, just like my driver's license says!" </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I do like that part, but I really like her because she isn't afraid to visit the holistic side of things when meeting with patients. I also love the wind chimes and hummingbird feeders. It makes me want to tell her that I meditate to a CD of a very well-known guru from India. Which I don't. I just want to impress her because the rock art and water features make me feel relaxed and inspired. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My point is that she listened to my long list of bodily digestive woes, and came up with a plan to help me move forward. She didn't just prescribe me a medication and send me on my way. Instead she looked at my lifestyle, my habits, and with a few tests developed a plan to figure out what's bothering me so we can move towards healing my grumpy gut. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
Why, you may ask, am I over-sharing this obviously personal information?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Because I have the list of foods I am allowed to eat in the next 6 months sitting beside me right now. And it is not a long list. At all. I think Ella's first words would have made up a longer list than this. Also eating is going to take more brainwork on my part. I have to read labels very carefully, plan every meal to make sure no offending characters are involved, journal about how that meal made me feel or didn't feel, then do it all over again in a few hours. And to top it all off, my happy hour acquaintances are also banned from joining me on this journey.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Despite everything, I am going to do this. Because my health is important. I only have this one body and I want to take care of it. I am 40 and I hope to be 80 one day. Getting older is quite a ride. But older is beautiful, too. So tonight I will begin my new food journey and while the kids and Sean are enjoying tacos I will be happily munching away at…let's see here...chicken liver, plain roasted beets, and a white potato with no butter or sour cream. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><i>Dear Food Journal,</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Tonight's meal did not make my tummy feel bad at all. Hooray! However, it did make me feel so, so sad because it tasted terrible. Also, I really, really, really miss taco night. </i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Love, </i></b><br />
<b><i>The ever hungry but hopefully healthier me </i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
...</div>
Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-44145106174497047342014-08-20T17:16:00.000-07:002014-08-21T11:39:08.886-07:00The Definition of a Friend<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">I googled friend today. And Google told me that
the definition of a friend is:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">noun</span></i></b><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">1. a person who one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual
affection, typically exclusive of sexual or family relations<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">2. a member of the Religious Society of Friends, a Quaker<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">verb</span></i></b><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">1. add (someone) to a list of contacts associated with a social
networking website.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">"I am friended by 29 people who I have not friended
back"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Umm, thanks Google. I think. Wish I
had googled this years ago when I gave a toast at my friend Kelly’s wedding.
It would have been so much more...accurate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">"To Kelly - the person with whom I have had
a bond of mutual affection for years, and, uh, not in a sexual or family
relation way, and also not just because we're Quakers. Which we're not.
Here, here!!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">As for social networking...well, you know what
you've done! You, social network, have single-handedly downgraded the
word "friend" to that of a well-worn, meaningless, ego-driven verb.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">"Would you friend me on Facebook so that
you can learn to love me through my posts about working out, the funny things
my kids say, and my favorite dinner? Plus, also, you'll get to see
close-ups of me ONLY from my good side while standing in different places.
It is sure to be a great friendship!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">I think it's actually quite challenging to come
up with a single definition of a friend. But when I googled inspirational
sayings about "friends," I found loads of pictures of kittens in
various states of happiness. Kittens snuggling with each other, or with a
newborn, or cuddling with large vicious-looking dogs or gorillas. So I wonder,
in my friendships, am I the kitten or the gorilla?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black;">
Fifteen years ago I was a bride in white arranging flowers, making critical
decisions between two disturbingly similar shades of cream, and choosing a
capped-sleeved bridesmaid dress in pastel green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To this day, one memory stands out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other than marrying the love of my life, of course.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s this.
My friend, Taryn. Taryn,
who has particular aversions. Like
shredded meat, Broadway musicals, swim goggles, and anything that limits her
physical movement. Like capped
sleeves on a pastel green bridesmaid dress.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">The idea of Taryn wearing fabric across her
upper arms…two pieces of fabric designed to give the wearer a beautiful
neckline, but ultimately, with the unintentional side effect of severely
restricting upper arm movement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Today, thinking of the hours spent posing for pictures, walking down the
aisle, dancing, arms mummified to her sides throughout it all, and knowing that inside,
and not even deep inside, she was probably panicking and using early stage
labor breathing to deal with her rising hysteria…well now, that’s what Google
would call a true “bond of mutual affection.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Friendship is this and so much more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It really can’t be captured in a single
definition or event because it is layer upon layer of capped sleeves, honesty,
forgiveness, laughter, tears, encouragement, embarrassments, sacrifice, and
shared time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Being a friend is not about the number of
phone calls, texts, emails or Facebook comments we make. Those are just the icing. The cake part is the sincerity, the joy we feel at a
friend’s success, the sadness we share at a failure. It is the ability to truly want the best that life has to
offer for another person, a person who is (now I get it Google) outside of our blood-ties or our marital bed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, why am I all concerned about Google's opinion on friends? Well, school has started. Which means my kids have left the safe cocoon of home where
family ties are strong and forgiveness comes easy. They have been thrust back onto the playground where
everyone is learning how to navigate the tricky world of social
interaction. So I am taking the
time to think about the people in my life who have taught me how to be a true friend. And I will share these stories, these
friend definitions, with my kids, in the hopes that one day, they will wear capped sleeves for someone else. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">...</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">(Psst...share your friend definitions with me. I'd love to hear more!)</span><br />
<br />
<br />Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-38447048476833872062014-05-01T23:40:00.001-07:002014-05-01T23:40:39.843-07:00 According to my mom<div>
I am really good at stuff. Or so my mom tells me. Also, I am a great writer (perhaps of all time), beautiful, smart, funny, with a cute "figure." Or so my mom tells me. Because my mom has only ever said words of encouragement to me. Except perhaps the time I was about to drop out of college just before graduation to take an activist-type job paying decidedly less than minimum wage, but just a scosh above barely a livable wage. (That was a good call, Mom and Dad.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm sure in this age of parenting books and general parenting know-how, there exists a book written by a renowned child-rearing expert about this very topic. That this type of over-encouragment of a child/middle-aged adult instead creates a massive ego and "me" complex. That by boosting your child's inner awesomeness only serves to make them think that they, and they alone, are the best ever. That this ridiculous kind of encouragement will ultimately lead to a lifetime of failed accomplishments, unfulfilling relationships, and a mediocre life at best. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, parenting book and renowned expert (whoever you are)....may I respectfully disagree? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My mom had confidence in me. She believed in me. l grew up enveloped in her absolute, shining love...for me. When I saw myself through her eyes, I felt like I could tackle just about anything and be successful. I developed an inner confidence, a voice (her voice) inside my head that cheered me on to keep trying, to work hard, and to make a difference in whatever I did. And even if I failed, I always had a cheerleader in my corner who encouraged me to keep at it until I succeeded.<br />
<br />
Because of her, I felt beautiful. Even when I was going through my super awkward teenage years. Not because she thought I was the next Christie Brinkley - random reference but remember my age, people! She would always tell me I had a lovely (albeit) feisty spirit. That my heart, faith, kindness and humor is what made me beautiful. She taught me how to focus on what true beauty and success really look like.<br />
<br />
It doesn't look like a stack of degrees, a cover girl body, or a high-paying, high-powered job. It doesn't look like the finish time to a race, the number of "friends" on Facebook, or even the number of friends on speed-dial. It doesn't look like a perfect marriage, perfect children or a perfect house.<br />
<br />
My mom taught me that none of that matters if your heart doesn't start in the right place first. Because of my mom, I grew up feeling beautiful from the inside out. And that kind of beauty doesn't fade with wrinkles and age spots. In fact, that kind of beauty can only grow stronger with age. Like my mom.<br />
<br />
Because of my mom, I learned to see success in all its sizes. In case you are worried, I know I am not the greatest writer ever. But my mom's faith in me makes me want to work harder, to challenge myself to be better - whether it's at writing or being a mom. Or simply to be a better human. <br />
<br />
My mom has believed in my ability to be more than I am my whole life. She is my rock. The person I know will always be honest with me. And the woman who can still embarrass me in public. At the grocery store, standing in line at check-out, holding my hand, looking at me with that smile, eyes beaming with pride because I just told her in great length and detail about something funny I said, or one of the kids said, or a recount of an SNL commercial. It doesn't really matter what I'm saying, she's just having a moment where she loves me. So she leans over and in a not so quiet voice says, "You are just so beautiful."<br />
<br />
Ugh. So embarrassing! I turn beet red as the teenager scanning our items tries to hide a giggle. I'm 39, but as horrified as when she would say this to me at 16. But just as I knew way back then, I know she is not talking about my face or my "figure." What she sees when she looks at me is the person I truly am inside. And she thinks that part of me is beautiful.<br />
<br />
On April 24, an ER doctor told me my mom was very, very ill. They had no idea what was wrong, but all he could tell me was that she was a very sick lady. There were no words of encouragement from the team of doctors and nurses working over my mom. They asked me to leave, to wait outside while they put needles in her and decided whether or not to intubate to help her breathe. <br />
<br />
I felt numb. Like I was standing on an iceberg of emotion. And if that iceberg melted in the slightest I would be flooded with more raw feelings than I could manage. So I prayed. I made calls to let our family know. My dad and I waited. We sat in her room in the ICU. I held her hand and kissed her forehead and watched, waiting for the first sign that today was not her day. That today was not the day I would have to face the world without my mom. <br />
<br />
And to my everlasting relief and gratefulness, today was not that day. My mom turned a corner, the most important corner she will ever turn in her life, and began to heal. Throughout the next two days she made enough improvements for us to all take a deep, deep sigh of relief. As I drove home from the hospital the next night, I was overcome. The iceberg melted and I sobbed and sobbed at how close we had come. I don't know what my life looks like without my rock. Without my mom. <br />
<br />
I went back to the hospital the next day. That day we got to laugh, marvel at how quickly things can change, hold hands, and join in a collective sigh of relief with my dad, brother and sister. Then a nurse came in to adjust mom's oxygen and put in another round of antibiotics. It was a quiet moment - mom had been resting and I was typing away at this blog. Then I hear her say to the nurse, "Judy, my daughter Missy is such a great writer. She has a blog and loads of people who read it. Missy, you should read one of your blogs for Judy."<br />
<br />
I am beet red, feeling 16 again and trying to hide behind my computer. "Mooom," I say, not unlike a teenager, "I think you and maybe five other people read my blog. Geez."<br />
<br />
But inside I am beaming. Because my mom is proud of me. And my heart just bursts with love for her. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
.....</div>
Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-73104878189272500392014-04-11T09:46:00.001-07:002014-04-11T10:55:42.049-07:00Goodbye Cousin Eddie<br />
<i>Last night our family said hello to a new friend. This new friend will take the place of a beloved piece of rusted metal. Rusted metal and canvas which has played a pretty big role in our kids' summer memories. Such a big role, that when we announced that we would be purchasing a newer-to-us replacement, not one of their sweet faces responded with delight. They were crushed, disappointed and as my oldest pointed out, "Isn't this just a bit too soon?" There were tears. I'm not lying. They were not ready. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"So is Max the next to go?" demanded Keira. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"No, kiddo, the dog stays. This is just the beginning of our future mountain adventures!" </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"But, Mom, it has a toilet. That is </i>not<i> camping." </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Maybe not, but in honor of our fallen friend, I am reposting this tribute to...Cousin Eddie. </i><br />
<br />
Summer in the mountains arrives s...l...o...w...l...y. It seems to take forever. Then one day you realize that you've been wearing shorts more than jeans, even at night and voila! You know that summer has arrived. And with the arrival of summer comes camping.<br />
<br />
Before kids, Sean and I used to backpack and tent camp. And when I say "used to backpack and tent camp" what I mean to say is we went backpacking up a really, really steep mountainous incline <i>once</i>. It was fun but the lack of an ice cold beer at the end was kind of a mood killer. And <i>once</i> we even tent camped when Ella was a baby. It was okay, but something about sleeping on the ground with babies and toddlers just killed the "camping is so fun and relaxing" spark.<br />
<br />
So when Keira was born we knew it was our moment to sell out. You guessed it...it was time to enjoy the Rocky Mountains in a glorified tent-on-wheels. A pop-up.<br />
<br />
With a baby and a toddler, we didn't want to spend a huge amount on our new camping digs. We were budget conscious and just a little bit cheap. After a brief search of craigslist, we found our mobile dream mountain home. A 1972 Starcraft camper for a whopping $500. It was older than us, had a floral pattern on the cushions that rivaled any Carol Brady dress, and was only slightly more expensive than the doll-size camper that comes with the "I love camping" American Doll. It was just our style.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jPJGj2r0rQc/Tfo9gj0cZGI/AAAAAAAAAG8/vb6XC4eiVV0/s1600/July+139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jPJGj2r0rQc/Tfo9gj0cZGI/AAAAAAAAAG8/vb6XC4eiVV0/s320/July+139.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
This camper had been well cared for by its previous owners. Like a handsome older man, all of our camper's important parts were intact and functioning. And much like a young, energetic woman dating a handsome older man, we broke him. During our inaugural camping trip, the canvas which had survived through presidents, recessions, the Cold War, and the entire seasons of Seinfeld and Friends ripped in three separate places. Zippers which had zipped without fail for the previous 30 plus years suddenly became disabled and useless. Screens that had served past occupants well by denying mosquitoes, flies and bees access to the inner sanctum tore without warning.<br />
<br />
After applying copious amounts of duct tape to all his tender places and affixing a large blue tarp upon the entire right side of the camper when threatened by a downpour, we stepped back, gazed lovingly at our camper and realized that the only right thing to do was to call him...<br />
<br />
Cousin Eddie. You know, Cousin Eddie? That friendly, slightly embarrassing second cousin? The one who dresses inappropriately, belches loudly, has little to no social skills, and shows up uninvited on your front door for a "visit?"<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Clark: So, when did you get the tenement on wheels? </i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Eddie: Oh, that uh, that there's an RV. Yeah, yeah, I borrowed it off a buddy of mine. </i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>He took my house, I took the RV. It's a good looking vehicle, ain't it?<br /> </i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Clark: Yeah, it looks so nice parked in the driveway. </i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><br /> Eddie: Yeah, it sure does. But, don't you go falling in love with it now, </i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>because, we're taking it with us when we leave here next month. </i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i></i></b></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f9K31X06VuY/Tfo9qaMZufI/AAAAAAAAAHA/9ZGGOgwYnJg/s1600/100_1760.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f9K31X06VuY/Tfo9qaMZufI/AAAAAAAAAHA/9ZGGOgwYnJg/s320/100_1760.JPG" height="241" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
And so our family camping adventures began. We might not be the prettiest camper on the mountains (not pretty at all actually), but Cousin Eddie has served us well for over 7 years now. He pops up on demand, the heater continues to keep us warm at night, the hail-damaged roof stays in the upright position at all times - even during an intense wind storm, and most importantly, the five of us sleep comfortably and soundly all night long.<br />
<br />
So now, every spring we hear the kids ask,<br />
<br />
"Mommy and Daddy, we really miss Cousin Eddie....is it summer yet?"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pw2UWrLioAo/TgTCglgJHPI/AAAAAAAAAHE/V-lQZEgMuo0/s1600/June+2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pw2UWrLioAo/TgTCglgJHPI/AAAAAAAAAHE/V-lQZEgMuo0/s320/June+2011.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Oh, yeah, it (almost) is.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
.........Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478151958144801061.post-64368875465960424942014-04-01T21:08:00.001-07:002014-04-01T21:08:09.274-07:00There Goes Santa ClausMy kids are growing. Fast. To all the parents out there...were your kids delivered with a warning label? Did it say something like, WARNING!! Don't blink or 10 years will go by. PREPARE yourself for the day you will be fielding questions about sex, sperm donors and being gay...on the way to basketball practice. AND MOST IMPORTANTLY!!! DO NOT cry on the day you have to answer the worst question of all.<br />
<br />
"Mommy, is Santa for real?"<br />
<br />
I am here for you, parents who have yet to face this. I warn you, it will not be easy. In fact, it is heartbreaking.<br />
<br />
It was a regular weekday night. School, dinner, reading and a tuck-in from Mom and Dad. Nothing was amiss. Nothing out of sorts which might have prepared us for such a drastic turn of events. Right as I placed my goodnight kiss on her adorably small, freckled nose, Ella (who is soon to be double-digits) pulled me closer and whispered in my ear, "Mommy, I have to ask you something."<br />
<br />
I pulled back and looked her in the eyes. And I just knew. I knew exactly what she was going to ask. And I wasn't ready.<br />
<br />
"Is Santa for real?"<br />
<br />
Oh, the heartbreak, those words! It's not like she hadn't asked before. Or shared a story of a friend of a friend who didn't believe in Santa. But in all this time, she had never looked at me in <i>that</i> way. In that little girl growing up way. I had promised myself and my kids that I would never lie to them. If they asked me something important. Something that needed an answer. An honest answer. Then that is what I would give them. But not this! Not now!<br />
<br />
I stammered something unintelligible. Something very Polar Express, "Oh, you know, honey. If you really believe in Santa, and a bell rings somewhere, then, you know....then he's real? Right?" <br />
<br />
My first (and probably only good) suggestion parents - never answer a direct question about Santa with a not-confident, teenage-like question. They are too smart for that and will smell something fishy almost immediately. <br />
<br />
"Mommy. I'm serious." Her blue eyes stared at me hard, shrewdly even. There was only one way out of this. I had to stall. <br />
<br />
"Oh, honey. Umm. Why are you asking this now? It's so late. Let's get you to bed." She crossed her arms and cocked her head in a very cute, mini-adult Columbo way. This kid was out for the truth.<br />
<br />
"Okay, fine. Why don't you sleep on it. If you still want to ask me in the morning...well, then, we'll talk."<br />
<br />
Looking extremely unsatisfied but temporarily mollified, Ella kissed me goodnight.<br />
<br />
Immediately, I ran upstairs, grabbed Sean, pulled him into our closet, and closed the door. Among our mingled clothes (his, of course, folded and stacked beautifully, as you well know) I hissed, "Ella just asked me if Santa was for real. Like, for real, for real."<br />
<br />
Apparently I revert to teenage speak when faced with huge life questions.<br />
<br />
"What did you say?" he asked.<br />
<br />
"Nothing, yet. I told her to sleep on it and ask us in the morning if she still wanted to."<br />
<br />
"Do you really want to tell her in the morning right before she goes to school?"<br />
<br />
My husband is wise, so wise. (And also, like, so totally hot.) He was right. We had to tell her now so she could go <i>to bed</i> freshly devastated and betrayed. Then wake up and go to school feeling the same way, but more in a PTSD kind of way. This was brilliant. And we were ready. Holding hands, we called Ella up to our room. Together, the three of us sat on the bed. She, looking at us expectantly. Us, with pre-formed tears already welling in our eyes. <br />
<br />
At this point, you might think we were taking this all a bit too seriously. But how could we not? Our family memories abound with Christmas mornings. The magic of watching little faces light up as they run down the stairs, shouting in glee at the presents awaiting them. The innocent conviction that an overweight old guy crept in through the chimney to leave Target-brand presents under the tree. Their absolute assurance that Bacon, our tiny, red-cheeked, slightly effeminate Elf-on-the-shelf will fly back to the North Pole every night with a stellar behavior report. <br />
<br />
And now we were about to ruin it all. To dissolve the magic of the season. To be the man behind the curtain. We were Morpheus about to shatter her world. <br />
<br />
"So, Ella." I start.<br />
<br />
"Yes, so, Ella." Sean helpfully adds.<br />
<br />
Silence. <br />
<br />
Wringing my hands, I try again. "Okay, so you really want to know if Santa is for real?"<br />
<br />
Blond hair swings rapidly as she shakes her head yes.<br />
<br />
"Okay, you are about to become part of the inner circle."<br />
<br />
(Side note: She is too young to have seen Meet the Parents, so not a word about how I ripped off major lines from that movie. She. Will. Never. Remember.)<br />
<br />
"For years, the inner circle has only consisted of Mommy and Daddy. But tonight, Ella, you are about to join this very exclusive, very special circle. This is a big deal because it means that you are growing up."<br />
<br />
I take a deep breath.<br />
<br />
"You asked us if Santa is real....well, he is, uh, not. Not real. What <i>is</i> real is that Christmas is about love and the beautiful gift that God gave to our world." <br />
<br />
I feel pretty confident that this is going well. But then I see that tears are starting to form in Ella's eyes, her chin is trembling and her face is going red from her efforts not to cry.<br />
<br />
"Santa is not real?" She asks as tears stream down her face.<br />
<br />
Well, crap! Did I jump the gun? Hadn't I done my due diligence with all my very obvious questions of "Do you actually want to know?!?" Is honesty actually not the best policy?<br />
<br />
"No, baby, he's not. Well, actually, Santa is more like a symbol for lots of people. People who love you and want to share something fun, and magical and special with you."<br />
<br />
"Like you and Daddy?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, like me and Daddy, and your grandparents and aunts and uncles."<br />
<br />
And then she began to cry for real. Real tears, real sobbing as the world as she knew it shifted. I look at Sean who cannot speak. Sean who with the giddiness of a child moves furniture every Christmas Eve to make way for the Santa gifts. Sean who booby traps the hallway so the kids won't sneak up on us playing Santa. As he watches the one bit of magic gifted to children slip out of Ella's life, he struggles to maintain his own composure.<br />
<br />
It's hard watching our kids grow up.<br />
<br />
We hug and hold her until the sobbing subsides. Our hearts in pieces. Finally, she takes a deep breath and asks, "Hold on, does that mean Bacon is not real either?"<br />
<br />
"Bacon is not real either," I say.<br />
<br />
"YOU move him every night? But he wrote notes back to me! That was YOU!"<br />
<br />
With that, another round of sobbing ensues. Santa was one thing. She's never actually met him. But Bacon? The Elf who lives with us all during the season, hiding out, being funny and impish, writing hilarious notes? That was one truth too many.<br />
<br />
Bit by bit, as the reality settles in, her world begins to open up to all the possibilities. Like, what's it like to play Santa, and did we love hiding Bacon, and wait a minute, does this mean the Easter Bunny isn't real either?<br />
<br />
"Can I help hide Bacon next year?"<br />
<br />
"You bet, honey. It will be so much fun to have you playing along with Daddy and me. Just remember, you have to keep this to yourself. Let your brother and sister enjoy it for as long as you have."<br />
<br />
She heaves a huge sigh, rolls her eyes at me and says in a hold-on-to-your-hat-because-I-will-be-a-teenager-soon kinda way, "Mom, of course I will keep it to myself. But I do have one question. All those Santa presents were from you and Dad?" I nod yes. With a worried look, she whispers, "Do you even have any money left?"<br />
<br />
And that is how Santa got out of town. In a matter of minutes it was all over. I knew it was a done deal when just a few days later Ella pulls me aside so we can have an "adult" talk as she called it.<br />
<br />
"Sooo, my ski goggles that were in my stocking? You gave those to me, right? And those jammies? Those were from you, not Santa, right?"<br />
<br />
I pull her to me and hug her tight. Maybe this will take a bit longer than we first thought to sink in. "Oh, sweet baby girl, yes, <i>we</i> gave you all those things. Because Santa isn't real, remember? I'm so sorry, honey."<br />
<br />
She wiggles out of my loving and supportive hug, puts her hands on my arms and with the keenness of an older kid, says, "That is soo great! Because the goggles are too tight and the jammies are too short. This means we can return them, right? Where did you get them? Target?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
.....Melissa Paynehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10665729779144130262noreply@blogger.com0